Amara ran her hand along the stallion’s side.He was so incredibly calm, as her fingers brushed the brand.It looked clean—almost too clean.Not the usual deep scar or blotched ironwork she’d seen on other stock.She opened her mouth to ask—
‘Paperwork’s all good,’ Brodie chimed in from the rails.‘Lydia checked it herself.She lets nothing through that doesn’t pass muster.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ muttered Craig, checking the horse’s shoes.
Amara let her fingers linger a moment longer over the faint lines of the brand, admiring the animal.
Lot 728 wasn’t built like the station-bred stockhorses surrounding him, his frame was compact and powerful, built for speed, not endurance.But it was the way he moved that gave him away.The way the horse stood—balanced, alert, waiting for instructions.
She murmured, ‘Mark-up, boy.’
The horse’s ears flicked forward.His weight shifted onto his haunches, muscles tightening like a coiled spring.Ready.Waiting.Expecting the play.
Amara’s heart clamped tight, somehow swinging on a tightrope between reckless hope and the quiet, familiar place where dreams went to die.
This horse—this chance—felt too good, too perfect.And perfect never stuck around for her.
Craig frowned as he stood beside her.‘What did you say?’
‘Mark-upis a polo term.’Finally, it was her turn to interpret the words for the locals.‘It means hold your ground, defend your rider.’
She swallowed hard as the realization hit home.‘Craig, this horse has been trained for polo competitions.Someone has bred him for the sport.’Thesport of kingsshe’d once lived for, that had once been her entire world.
Most of all, it made this horse valuable… to her.
She exhaled heavily, her voice barely a whisper, ‘You don’t belong here, do you?’
Funny, neither did she.
Six
This was such a bad idea.Yet, it was too late for Porter to call it off—not when Amara was already here, pretending like this wasn’t going to be awkward as hell.
‘Do you want to see your room?’
Amara opened the back of her car.It was one of those older Land Rover models, the Freelander.The kind of box-on-wheels that’d be more at home doing lunch runs in Toorak than rolling over a cattle grid.
He’d bet good money it still had some pony club show ribbons, or a stray bobby pin jammed in the glovebox.
She slid on a wide-brimmed blue hat, tidy as ever.
The dash, however, held a bright pink stockman’s hat—bold, blinding, and clashing with everything.
Deadset, he wanted to say something about that hat.But he’d promised Tanisha that he’d behave, no smart-arse remarks…
Welcome to cohabitation.
So he gave the Freelander messing up his yard another once-over.Deadset, it was like parking a pony in a bull paddock.It just didn’t fit.And he just couldn’t help himself… ‘Does this model come with heated seats, a yoga mat, and a playlist called Coastal Cowgirl?Or are you planning on hauling hay with it for a photo shoot?’
She didn’t rise to the bait.Just lifted her chin again.‘I’d like to see the stables first.’
Of course she would.
‘I heard you bought a horse.’
‘It’s why I’m here, Porter.’
‘When do you get it?’
